The Masquerade Man
by Cryptix
Summary: London, 1881. At the heels of the Industrial Revolution follows another, far stranger phenomenon. Can a remarkable brain still stand out in a world where men can outrace trains, wield fire, or even fly?
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

* * *

On a brisk autumn evening in the fashionable district of Mayfair, the Georgian loveliness of Upper Brook Street was marred by an unsightly swarm of police-men in and around the stately end terrace. Outside, passers-by gawked and chattered, while constables urged them on their way.

Inside, the house was eerie in its silence, the family and servants having been chased into the morning room. Three people remained in the expansive ground-floor drawing-room: a small, nattily-dressed man whose dark eyes darted impatiently about the room; a middle-aged constable who was trying very hard not to fall asleep on his feet; and a hirsute Italian that sat cross-legged in the middle of the bloodstained carpet, eyes closed, exactly as he had been sitting for the past hour.

The man on the floor stirred. "Inspector Lestrade!" he snapped, his voice unpleasant and gravelly. His eyes caught the waning light as he rose and turned, the pupils flashing in a fashion more appropriate to a cat than a man.

Lestrade elbowed the constable awake. "You've got something?" _Finally?_

"Yes. I have no doubt that the murderer is none other than young Mr. Telesca."

"Wrong!" snapped a voice from across the room, and where before there had only been a patch of carpet and an open window there now stood a tall man in a long coat, his face muffled by a scarf and a hawk-nosed masquerade mask. Dark blue cloth had been sewn into the eye-holes, but the tilt of his head still gave the impression of intense disapproval.

The Italian sputtered. "_Wrong_? What the devil do you mean, _wrong_? Who do you think you are, barging into a crime scene like this? Do you know who I am?"

The man in the mask bowed. "I am Sir Mise, occasional consultant to the police force, and you are Mr. Ettore Catanzaro, Post-Cognitive Investigator on call to the Royal house. What I mean is that you are mistaken in your conclusions. Mr. Wishnov was not killed by his daughter's fiancé."

When the official policemen made no move to arrest the interloper, Catanzaro puffed out his chest and sneered. "And I suppose you know who _did _kill him, Mr. _Mise_?"

"As a matter of fact, I do not," Mise admitted. Before Catanzaro had a chance to be too pleased with himself, he continued, "_Yet_. However, dragging in Mr. Telesca simply because you do not have a better match for the cloaked figure in your vision would not do, as by the time his innocence had been confirmed by a Reader, the real murderer would be long gone, and your reputation would be called into question."

There was nearly an audible _pop_ as Catanzaro's mouth snapped shut. He glowered in silence, his beady eyes following Mise as the masked man made a lazy inspection of the room. Curiously, the large bloodstain held his interest only for a moment, whereas he became much absorbed in the carpet by the dining-room door, even going so far as to crouch down and whip out a lens to inspect it.

Catanzaro could only take so much. "Pah! This is intolerable. Inspector, I do hope you're not usually in the business of letting masked men saunter into your crime scenes and denounce your theories without the slightest bit of evidence."

"He isn't," Mise answered for Lestrade. "But he makes an exception for me. I'm usually right."

"Stuff and nonsense! The man in my vision may have been cloaked, but I am certain that it is Mr. Telesca, and I needn't stand for any of your foolishness!"

"The person in your vision, they wore one of Mr. Telesca's suits, yes?"

"Well, yes!"

"And had coarse brown hair, much like Mr. Telesca's, yes?"

"Of course!"

"And were the appropriate height?"

"Yes!"

"And Mr. Telesca is in the habit of attaching slabs of wood to his shoes, I suppose?"

"_Ye_- what?"

Mise pointed one long, leather-clad finger at the carpet he had just finished inspecting. "That, my dear fellow, obscured amidst the Oriental pattern of this rug, is a print in blood of a curiously rectangular mark, with slivers of wood caught in the fibres around it. I imagine you didn't look too closely at the feet in your vision, which is what the murderer was counting on when they risked adding these extra inches to their height. No, I think you should be on the lookout for a woman, somewhere within or just below five-foot six, a fairly slender one to masquerade as Telesca, with blonde hair."

"A blonde-haired woman, Mister Mise?" asked Lestrade, who had so far been very successful in pretending he wasn't greatly amused by this whole exchange.

Mise indicated the main bloodstain. "There are a number of hairs among the carpet fibre, some undoubtedly belonging to various members of the household, but there is a particularly large number of long, fine blonde strands right about where Wishnov's hand would have fallen. If I remember the household correctly, that would put main suspicion upon the new lady's-maid and the Wishnov girl's friend, but seeing as both said hairs and the wood fibres bear traces of a black wax similar to that used in cleaning stoves, I would follow up the maid first. Check the boiler for signs of a wig and two small slabs of wood, two or three inches thick. The maid's shoes may possibly have nail-holes in the heels. Don't be surprised if you find the rest of the evidence stuffed in Mr. Telesca's room."

"Williams, go make sure the maid's still with the family," Lestrade instructed the Constable.

"Yes, sir!"

Catanzaro's mouth opened, attempting to form around some word or another, then shut again when none came. He repeated this process several times, succeeding in a remarkably good impression of a surprised catfish, before finally closing both his mouth and eyes in focus. When his eyes opened again, they were quite round. "Why, you... that's... I mean, that's a very plausible story as well, mister - what was it?"

"Mise. Sir Mise."

"Yes, Mister Mise. I will, of course, have to take Mr. Telesca into custody as well, just in case, but-"

"Of course. Just so long as the real murderer is apprehended. I believe my work is done here, and I shall take my leave - through the front door, this time."

Lestrade followed him out, waiting until the door had closed before he let his disbelief show through. "Did I just watch you correct a _Post-cognitive_?"

"Yes, you did."

"We don't pay you enough."

"No, you don't."

* * *

_Based on stories and characters created by Arthur Conan Doyle_

_Beta-read by Adidasandpie_

_Fair Warning: I only have a vague idea of where I'm going with this story, so updates will be sporadic and/or nonexistent until I discover the main plot.  
_


	2. Chapter 1: Mister Sherlock Holmes

**Chapter 1: Mister Sherlock Holmes**

* * *

"Now, you mustn't blame me if you don't get on."

A hansom cab clattered to a stop before St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and two well-dressed men disembarked, one rather more robustly than the other.

"You seem worried, Stamford, old man," remarked the more lethargic of the pair, his manner cheerful enough despite the weariness that seemed to cling to his entire being. "Is this Holmes' temper so formidable, or what?"

"Oh, hardly that - not that I've seen, anyhow. You must keep in mind I only see him when he opts to call on the lab, and it can be weeks between those occasions."

"He's not a medical student, then?"

"If he is, I worry for his professors. He is quite systematic and single-minded when set to a task, but his studies are almost arbitrary in their diversity. One day it's the makeup of paint samples, the next it's immersing dissected eyes in acid solutions. He has a passion for precise and accurate knowledge, it seems."

"A laudable trait, certainly."

"Yes, but even the most admirable qualities can be taken too far, and when it comes to beating the subjects in the dissecting-room with a stick-"

"Beating the subjects!"

"To verify how far bruising can commence after death."

"How utterly bizarre. And yet you don't know what he is studying?"

"I'm given to think that I'll sooner discover the secret of the Light than find any coherent discipline Sherlock Holmes could be pursuing. Ah, but here we are, and you must form your own opinions about him."

As they spoke, the pair progressed down a narrow flagstone passage between departments, through a sterile whitewashed hall, and turned into a doorway not far down. Though Stamford led the way, both were familiar with the path, and it took only a few minutes to reach their destination.

The chemical laboratory was a lofty room, set with orderly ranks of low, broad tables that bristled with gas burners. Glass containers of every conceivable shape, size, and use abounded, strewn across tables, lining shelves, or held in vaguely threatening metal apparatuses. Only one other person occupied the room , and he spun about when they entered, his expression nothing short of electrified as he bounded over to Stamford.

"I've found it!" he cried, his pale eyes dancing. "I've discovered a reagent that distinguishes blood types in spectral analysis!*" Had he discovered a gold mine, greater delight could not have shown on his features.

Stamford met the young man's ardour with a bemused smile. "Doctor Watson - Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Holmes seemed to notice the other man for the first time, but made no move to shake his hand. "You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive," he said in lieu of a greeting.

Watson blinked. "How on earth could you know that?"

"Never mind," said Holmes, dismissing the subject with a flutter of one nervous hand. "The question now is about spectral analysis! Surely you see the significance of my discovery?"

"Chemically, I'm sure it's fascinating," Watson admitted, "but practically-"

"Chemically, nothing! It is the most practical medico-legal discovery to date! Look here, now!" He seized Watson's coat-sleeve and drew him back over to the worktable, where what appeared to be a three-pronged brass telescope was set up, with a triangular prism in the centre and a lit burner glowing in front of one scope. "Let us have some fresh blood," Holmes said, digging a long bodkin into his finger and whisking the resulting droplet of blood into a chemical pipette. "It being fresh, we must dilute it to one-and-fifty parts, and then, here-" he added a few drops of a clear liquid and some greenish crystals to the solution. "Now look through the telescope," he instructed, settling a portion of the solution in front of the third scope. "There, you see the absorption-bands between the D and E, the yellow and green? That's the typical absorption spectrum of fresh haemoglobin, as our friend Sorby discovered not so long ago, though made a bit more vivid by my reagent. Now direct your attention to that somewhat dim band in the blue spectrum, see it? That band is present in every sample of vertebrate blood that I have put to test, with some variations in placement, in this case indicative of the AB blood group - a half-band thinner would give us evidence of an A or B, and half a band towards the violet would show us an O. Do you know what that means?" The young man's eyes fairly glittered as he spoke, and he bounced on his heels with his enthusiasm.

Watson straightened away from the spectroscope. "I believe..." he said, rubbing his eyes. "It means you can distinguish between animal and human blood, doesn't it?"

That seemed to surprise Holmes, to the extent that he stopped bouncing and blinked a few times before answering. "Well - yes. Yes, exactly. The old spectral test, while ever-reliable in the detection of blood, could never distinguish between the vertebrates."

"You are to be congratulated," said Watson with a smile. "It's a very practical test, indeed."

A rosy flush overtook Holmes' cheeks. "Thank you," he said, before busying himself with sticking a strip of plaster over the small prick in his finger. "I have to be careful," he explained in almost a conspiratorial whisper, "for I dabble with poisons a good deal." He held out his hands, showing how both were mottled with more plasters and discoloured by acid.

"Well, that's all bully for you, Holmes," Stamford interrupted, taking up a seat on a three-legged stool and pushing another toward Watson, "and you ought to publish straightaway, but we're here because Watson here is looking for new diggings. Since you yourself complained of the matter this morning, I thought I had better bring the two of you together."

"Ah!" Holmes' hawk-like face broke out into a delighted smile. "I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street."

"Baker Street?" said Watson. "That's quite convenient, I work a practice on New Bond Street."

Holmes' brow quirked. "Really?" His tone fell just short of sincerity. "That's perfect, then. These rooms will suit us to the ground. You don't object to strong tobacco?"

"I always smoke 'ship's', myself," Watson answered.

"That's good enough. I generally keep chemicals about, and occasionally do experiments. Would that annoy you?"

"By no means."

"Let me see - what are my other shortcomings? I frequently go out at odd hours. I get in the dumps at times, and don't open my mouth for days on end. You must not think I am sulky when I do that. Just let me alone, and I'll soon be right. What have you to confess now? It's just as well for two fellows to know the worst of one another before they begin to live together."

Watson laughed at the cross-examination, and took a moment to size up the young man. "I keep a bull-pup," he said, "and I object to rows because my nerves are shaken, and I am out at all sorts of ungodly hours for work, and when I am not working I am extremely lazy."

"Do you include violin playing in your category of rows?" Holmes asked, a tinge of anxiety in his voice.

"It depends on the player. A well-played violin is a treat for the gods - a badly-played one -"

"Oh, that's all right," Holmes said, rubbing his hands together. "I think we may consider the thing as settled - that is, if the rooms are agreeable to you."

"When shall we see them?"

"Call for me here at noon to-morrow, and we'll go together and settle everything," he answered.

"All right - noon exactly," said Watson, rising from his stool. This time Holmes took his offered hand, shaking it heartily.

_-x-X-x-_

Twelve-fifteen the next day found the prospective flatmates upon the door-step of 221b Baker Street, where they were met by a handsome older woman whose first words were, "Oh, good morning, Mister Holmes, do come in. I still shan't settle any lower on the rooms."

"Still unreasonable, I see," Holmes scoffed, though his smile nullified any harshness in the reproach. "No matter, I've made do anyhow. I've found a man to go halves - and a respectable one at that. Doctor Watson, this is Mrs. Hudson, the proprietess of these apartments."

"Good morning, ma'am," said Watson.

"A pleasure, doctor. Would you care for some tea?"

"No, thank you, ma'am."

"All right then, dear, but let me know if you change your mind. Now, the flat is right up this way-"

Holmes quickly took over conducting the inspection, extolling its virtues and pointing out a few spaces that he already had plans for. The suite consisted of two fair-sized bedrooms - one upstairs and one on the first floor that Holmes laid claim to - attached to a spacious, cheerfully furnished sitting-room with two broad windows affording a view of the street. The arrangements were in general so pleasant, and more importantly, so reasonably-priced between the two prospective purchasers, that the lease was signed by one o'clock. Mrs. Hudson offered them lunch before they left, stating that they both looked 'so dreadfully thin', but though Watson was tempted by the promising scents wafting from her kitchen, both ultimately declined.

Watson moved in that very night, only lingering in his old apartment long enough to settle accounts with the landlady and pet her miniscule dog, who seemed aware that he was leaving for good and made a valiant effort to obstruct the process. Holmes arrived the next morning just before Watson left for work, laden with several portmanteaus and trunks. The free hours of the next few days were occupied by the unpacking and laying out of property. Once that was done, the new flatmates set about duteously ignoring each other, or, rather, pretending to ignore each other while surreptitiously indulging a curiosity that is only to be expected from warm-blooded, intelligent beings.

Watson kept to an even schedule: he woke early; worked most of the day, first at the practice and then for a few more hours at the free clinics; and returned home a few hours after sunset, whereupon he took a light supper, spent around a half-hour to an hour in front of the fire with a book or journal and a glass of brandy, and then went to bed.

Holmes, as far as Watson could tell, kept no schedule whatsoever. While usually he was still abed when Watson left, there were days when he would already be awake and fluttering about the sitting-room, tinkering at his chemical table or smoking up a storm. At nights he would often keep Watson company in front of the fire. Occasionally he would leap to his feet with a cry, apropos of nothing, and rush to the writing desk to scribble something that he would then dash out to deliver himself, having been harshly rebuked by the landlady the first, second, and third times he had knocked her up late in the night to send a letter. He did not always return before Watson had retired.

Then there was the violin. The violin: a gorgeous, glowing, high-quality example of the instrument; and the epitome of the ordered chaos that was Holmes. He had not lied when he'd said he was a good player - in point of fact, he was an exceptional player, when he so chose to be. When asked, he could produce stunning renditions of any piece suggested, most often Mendelssohn's _Lieder_, one of Watson's favourites. When left to his own devices, however, he was more wont to pick and scrape at the instrument, occasionally composing chords of melancholy, happiness, or some other emotion, but more usually producing nothing that even resembled music. These sessions rarely lasted long and he generally terminated them with a quick succession of Watson's favourite airs, so that his flatmate's ire never grew too great.

In all, the arrangement was satisfactory for both of them, and they fell into a sort of pattern that kept them out of the other's way. It was some weeks before that pattern was disrupted.

Autumn was well upon London, with the days growing ever shorter and colder. In defiance to the season, stormclouds rolled in and refused to break, leaving the sky dark and the air heavy and damp in addition to the cold. It was only natural that a bout of influenza present itself, swamping both the practice and the clinic. Though the weather had Watson leaning far too heavily on his cane and hobbling like a man thrice his age, he would not be deterred from his work. Doctor Fairholm, the owner of the practice, knew better than to try and send him home, but he could do little to hide his concern for Watson's condition.

It was half past noon, in the waiting-room between cases, when Watson sneezed. Fairholm excused himself from the patient whose paperwork he was arranging, stepped over and laid his wrist on Watson's forehead.

Watson jerked away, his eyes dark. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," replied Fairholm in his firm paternal tone. "You're warm, you're pale, and your cheeks are flushed."

"I am perfectly-"

"Doctor Watson. You are sick. Go home and take care of yourself before it gets any worse." Fairholm crossed his arms, unruffled by the glare that was levelled down at him. A small man he may have been, and some twenty years Watson's senior, but he was well-versed in the managing of difficult patients.

After several long seconds, Watson deflated. "You're right, Fairholm."

Fairholm's warm eyes softened instantly, and he squeezed Watson's good shoulder. "Get some rest. I'll see you in a day or two, and God knows I'll be glad of it, if this keeps up."

Watson managed to return his smile. "You'll get along without me."

"I'll muddle through somehow. Now go! Can't you see I'm busy? Shoo!"

Holmes was out when Watson arrived home. The doctor wasted no time in sinking into one of the fireside armchairs with which the sitting-room was furnished. A groan escaped his lips.

After a moment, he leant forward and grabbed the Gladstone bag he'd dropped at the foot of the chair. His fingers searched blindly, feeling around several bottles and containers before they came to what they were looking for, and drew out a small bottle. He held the amber glass up to the light, and considered the fine salt that filled it.

_Morphine Sulfate_, read the label in curling block-letters.

Then the door opened, and he palmed the bottle, turning to see his flatmate shrugging off his overcoat.

"You're home early, doctor," said Holmes. "I hope you aren't too terribly ill."

"One day I will figure out how you come to know everything without being told. I am sure you are secretly a mentalist."

"To tell that you are home? Come now, it hardly takes a mentalist to see when a hat is on a hook."

Watson shook his head, a ghost of a smile finding its way onto his lips despite his ill humour.

_-x-X-x-_

_Personal Journal, John H. Watson, MD._

_Late of the Army Medical Department._

_September 22, 1881_

It has been nearly half a year since I last registered into this journal, but seeing as there is little else to engage in at present, it seems as worthwhile a pass-time as any.

This damnable cold has lain me up for three days now. It is nothing too terrible in itself, and I have no rational worries about its progression. It's the irrational that is making me haggard. The fever is too familiar, recalling horrible months in Peshawur when even the best healers despaired of my recovery. Worse, this ghastly weather irritates my wounds, and makes them as tender as when they first opened. Without work to devote my energies to, my mind cannot help but to wander back to fateful Maiwand.

It is worst when I sleep. Far too vividly do the dreams come, recalling the chaos of that terrible battlefield; every night since contracting this flu I have woken abruptly and in a cold sweat, tears in my eyes and throat raw from screaming. Though neither Holmes nor Mrs. Hudson mention it, I know that I have disturbed them both. They have been most patient with me throughout, for all that I have been irritable.

Oddly, I awoke last night to the strains of Holmes' violin. Not his usual picking and strumming, either, but a coherent melody, though I can't say what it was. Whatever the tune, it was quite soothing. I'd consider asking him to play tonight, except I cannot think of a way to do so that would not be unbearably awkward. A shame, for that was the best sleep I've had in months.

I've read all my books and journals, and the papers seem to hold nothing more substantial than sensationalist reports of that Sir Mise vigilante, so that, with nothing else to occupy my mind, I find myself paying closer attention to my mercurial flatmate. A few discrepancies have thus come to light. I knew that he was unusual from the start, of course, but these are things that I cannot yet account for, and so they pique my curiosity.

On the occasions that Mrs. Hudson does bring him post, he pays it little attention, giving the missives hardly a glance before he tosses them onto the writing desk. Once or twice a day, outside the regular post and at irregular hours, though always when he is at home, a particular knock will come at the door and he will rush to answer it. I chanced to look out the window at one of these, in time to see a young and shabby street urchin scurry off just as the door below swung shut. These letters Holmes always reads immediately, and he reacts differently to each - some of them he pens an answer to immediately, while others he puzzles over awhile, plucking away at the violin as he does so.

The reason I take care to mention that these notes always arrive when he is home is because he often is not, particularly in the afternoons. I assumed at first that he spent his days in the laboratory or dissecting-room, but now I am not so sure, especially after witnessing him rise from a period of contemplation with a sudden burst of energy and dart out the door without a word, despite it being nearly eight and most respectable establishments undoubtedly closed. It was nigh on eleven before he returned. Thinking on it, I realized that was not the first such incident.

It has occurred to me that I have no idea what Holmes' actual occupation is. He never seems to want for money, but I have seen no sign of how he comes into it. His hours are too erratic for a usual business. His spending habits - including his choice of housing - are not consistent with any ideas of independent wealth. I might think he were operating off a trust fund, except that he cannot have come from a family with such means, as there are the most baffling gaps in his knowledge which surely would have been corrected in a moneyed household. Indeed, he has made not even the most passing mention of his family.

I speak of the gaps in his knowledge, and they really are too singular not to elaborate on. Of contemporary literature, philosophy, and politics, he appears to know next to nothing. Just a week ago, I quoted Carlyle's impression of music** to him, only for him to inquire in the naïvest way who that was and what he might have done.

It was this very after-noon, though, that my surprise reached a climax, as it seems Holmes is ignorant of Copernican Theory. How anyone in this modern century, much less a man so generally intelligent as he is, can be ignorant of such schoolboy facts as that the earth orbits the sun is staggering. Even stranger was that, once I had given him a rudimentary explanation, he nodded thoughtfully and said that he would try his best to forget it.

At my very evident surprise, he endeavoured to explain himself. "I consider the brain to be like an attic, and you have to stock it with furniture as you see fit. Only a fool takes in all the lumber he sees without regard, so that his brain-attic becomes crowded and jumbled. The skilful workman takes care to stock his attic with only the tools that aid him in his work, so that he always has them well at hand when he should need them. It is a mistake to think that that little room has elastic walls that can distend to anyone extent, and if it is filled up with too much useless information then it will invariably push out the useful."

While it seems like good advice, I still cannot fathom that the Solar System should fall into the category of 'useless'. When I expressed that to him, he became impatient. "What difference is it to me? You say that we go round the sun. If we went round the moon it would not make a pennyworth of difference to me or my work."

There was an ideal opening to ask what that work was, but his expression plainly told me that the inquiry was unwelcome. Perhaps the opportunity will present itself again later, because I find myself growing ever more curious with each passing day.

_-x-X-x-_

_Personal Journal, John H. Watson, MD._

_Late of the Army Medical Department._

_September 23, 1881_

Good news all around today. I seem to be over the worst of the flu, but I am doing the sensible thing and taking another day to ensure that I've eradicated it completely before I go in to work. I do feel well enough, though, that I was able to entertain Stamford today when he visited, and we plan to take lunch tomorrow.

My flatmate is enigmatical as ever. He spent most of to-day, including Stamford's visit, lying upon the settee without moving a muscle, staring so vacantly ceilingward that, if I didn't know better, I might have thought him under the influence of some narcotic. In fact, he is lounging there still, lost in his dreamy-eyed torpor.

It has occurred to me that, in our conversation yester-day, Holmes gave me a clue toward solving the mystery of his occupation. He claimed that he only kept that knowledge which aids in his work, therefore, to inventory that knowledge which he has indulged in conversation may give me an insight into what work would require it. To this end:

_Sherlock Holmes - his limits_

1. Knowledge of Literature. - Nil.

2. " " Philosophy. - Nil.

3. " " Astronomy. - Nil.

4. " " Politics. - Feeble.

5. " " Botany. - Variable.

Well up in belladonna, opium, and poisons generally. Knows nothing of practical gardening.

6. Knowledge of Geology. - Practical, but limited.

Tells at a glance different soils from each other. After walks has shown me splashes upon his trousers and told me by their colour and consistence in what part of London he had received them.

7. Knowledge of Chemistry. - Profound.

8. " " Anatomy. - Accurate, but unsystematic.

9. " " Sensational Literature. - Immense.

He appears to know every detail of every horror perpetrated in the century.

10. Plays the violin well.

11. Is an expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman.

12. Has a good practical knowledge of British law.

_-x-X-x-_

Watson stared at the open journal before him, his pen hovering over the page. Finally, he let out a frustrated breath and snapped the book shut. The languid figure on the couch did not stir at the sound.

Watson rose, groaning at the stiffness in his back, and took up his cane. As he passed the couch he glanced at its occupant. Holmes' lithe form lay stretched across its length, a faded mouse dressing-gown laying open over yesterday's shirt and trousers, bare feet tossed carelessly over one arm. His eyes were closed, his breathing even, though the hands folded over his chest twitched occasionally. Watson stopped, leaning on his cane and considering his flatmate. The sleeping face did not answer any of his questions, but he did look very peaceful.

The moment was interrupted by a pop from the fading embers. Watson shook his head and limped out of the room. A minute later he returned carrying a blanket which he lay over Holmes, making sure to cover his feet especially. No sense in both of them catching cold.

He turned away, then, and did not observe when Holmes' eyes slid half-open, pale irises sparkling in the remains of the fire as they watched Watson withdraw.

* * *

_Based on stories and characters created by Arthur Conan Doyle_

_Beta-read by Adidasandpie_

_*This experiment is mostly technobabble. I have little to no applicable knowledge of chemistry or physics, and ended up BSing this together based off a variety of research from 1868 through 1913. Any chemistry-minded readers that could spare the time to help make this coherent would be greatly appreciated._

_The one part of all this that does amuse me is that, in my studies, I have found that Holmes' original STUD test was obsolete eleven years before he invented it. According to an 1869 BMJ, spectral analysis had already been proven more effective than any chemical and microscopic tests in identifying blood stains, no matter how old or how small the sample was. The only thing they couldn't conclusively do was distinguish human blood from any other vertebrate, and they still have trouble with that one._

_**Thomas Carlyle's quote: "Music is well said to be the speech of angels; in fact, nothing among the utterances allowed to man is felt to be so divine. It brings us near to the infinite."_


	3. Chapter 2: The Missing Flatmate

**Chapter 2: The Missing Flatmate**

* * *

Watson's eyes snapped open, his throat raw and his heart hammering in his ears. The bedclothes tangled around him were soaked with sweat. The dark bedroom flew into focus, a heavy rain pounding on the window. His shoulder throbbed, and his calf, never to be outdone when it came to causing him pain, ached in kind. His knuckles hurt where they clenched around the grip of his revolver.

The dream was always the same. It began slow, at night, at the campfire, sharing stories and gybes with the men of the Berkshires. Then it turned to the searing heat of Maiwand, where he watched helpless as mortar shrapnel tore the throat from one of those same men and choked him on his own blood. A Jezail rifle boomed in Watson's ear, ripping into his shoulder. Not blood, but a flower blossomed from the wound, only to be plucked by an inexperienced Healer's hands that left the roots in place to fester. It was as the roots were spreading that he would awaken. He wasn't sure when he started screaming.

Watson groaned and shoved the gun back under his pillow, resolving once again that he would put it in a drawer in the morning. He hoisted himself up, stumbled to the washstand, and splashed handfuls of lukewarm water on his face until his skin no longer felt so clammy.

When the water drained away from his eyes, he found himself looking into the shaving mirror. The man who stared back at him might have once been young and handsome, but now he was upwards of fifty, perhaps forty-five with a smile on his face and the sleep groomed out of his hair. Certainly he was not twenty-eight. He was too haggard, his cheeks too hollow, his face lined too deeply. His body, once built strong and solid, had been melted down to bones by Afghan heat and enteric fever. An ugly starburst of flesh embossed his left shoulder, where his collarbone lay dented inward. He did not have to look to recall the furrow gouged into his leg by shrapnel.

It was remarkable, he thought, how two pieces of metal no larger than his finger could utterly ruin a man.

The clock informed him that it was fifteen minutes to four. He doubted that he would be able to sleep again in that time - not on his own, anyhow. With a resigned sigh, he drew the amber bottle out of his bag and measured a few grains into a glass of water. Just as he was raising the glass to his lips, the front bell rang, and a frantic pounding resonated throughout the flat.

Watson set the glass down and snatched his dressing robe from the bedpost.

The pounding had stopped by the time he'd hobbled downstairs, tying his robe as he went. He found the sitting-room door open, and Holmes at the bottom of the stairs, shrugging a waterproof on over his shirtsleeves. A towheaded urchin was dripping rainwater just inside the door.

"Holmes?" Watson ventured, leaning his weight on the banister. "What's going on?"

"It's an emergency," Holmes said. He plucked a hat off the hook and was out the door without another word of explanation. The urchin tipped his hat and followed. Watson was left staring at the closed door, wholly perplexed.

After a long minute of contemplation, he concluded that the best course of action was to return to bed straightaway, and hope that lunch with Stamford tomorrow might provide some enlightenment.

When he drifted into sleep not long after, it was with the glass full and forgotten upon the washstand.

_-x-X-x-_

"And he left, just like that? In the middle of the night?"

Watson murmured a confirmation over his wineglass.

Stamford shook his head in disbelief, tossing his napkin onto the remains of his lunch. "How frightfully queer. What possible business could he have in the middle of the night, and in such a violent downpour?"

"I was rather hoping you might know the answer," said Watson. "You've known him a few years now, after all. I thought perhaps it had something to do with his work - whatever that might be."

"I'm afraid I can be of no help there," Stamford said with a chuckle. "When I first met him, he was a clerk in a government office, and for six months he complained of how utterly boring it was. Then, suddenly, nothing. I've not the faintest idea what he's been doing since then, much less why it'd bring him out of bed like that."

"Then I suppose I shall just have to unravel this mystery myself."

"I wish you the best of luck," said Stamford. "You'll need it. Sherlock Holmes is a right knotty problem."

The conversation drifted into other channels, and Holmes did not come up again. He had not yet returned when Watson came home.

_-x-X-x-_

_Personal Journal, John H. Watson, MD._

_Late of the Army Medical Department._

_September 25, 1881_

Holmes has been gone for two days now, and I am really beginning to worry. He has disappeared like this before in our short acquaintanceship, yes, but never for so long a stretch - twelve hours, at most. I cannot help but to fear that some ill fate has befallen him.

I am grateful that I am well enough to work again, as I do not think I could stand this anxiety without the routine to distract me. Fairholm, also, has made it clear that he is glad to have my company again. The influenza outbreak has not yet abated, but the healing Light can do little for fever and sniffles, and Fairholm needs to be free to devote his whole focus when called upon to heal a nearly-amputated arm or a cracked skull.

Simply writing about my day is not enough of a diversion. I think I will try to read for awhile. Failing that, a solution of morphine may - then again, I think I should be awake when he does return.

_-x-X-x-_

_Personal Journal, John H. Watson, MD._

_Late of the Army Medical Department._

_September 28, 1881_

Where are you, Holmes?

_-x-X-x-_

Watson blinked blearily, his vision dominated by a fuzzy black mass that he belatedly recognized as a pillow. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and read the clock as soon as he could make it out. One-thirty. He'd only managed to fall asleep an hour before, and then only with a quarter-dose of morphine in his system. What could have woken him?

As if in answer, a creak reverberated through the floorboards, and the sounds of a room being rifled floated up from the sitting-room. Watson's hand automatically slid beneath the pillow, fingers curling around the grip of his revolver. He could barely make out the rummaging over the sound of his own soaring heartbeat.

Watson stole down the stairs, soundless in his stocking-feet, the knuckles of both hands white where they clutched at the banister and his gun. He had left the bottom door open when he'd retired, so that a brocade curtain was the only barrier between himself and the intruder. Watson parted the curtain cautiously. A tall figure stood silhouetted in the darkness, hunched over the dining-table, back to Watson as he shuffled through something that clinked in an oddly familiar way.

Watson stepped out from behind the curtain, punctuating the motion with a cock of the hammer. The man stiffened and went still.

"Hear that? That's a Webley No. 2, aimed at the back of your skull. Now turn around slowly, and keep your hands where I can see them."

The man's shoulders relaxed very slightly, and he half-turned, revealing an aquiline profile. "It's only me, Doctor," sighed a familiar deep voice. "You can take your finger off that trigger."

"Holmes?"

"In the flesh. I apologize for waking you."

"It's all right. I'm a light sleeper. Where have you been?" Watson started forward, setting the gun on the gasogene as he passed. Holmes retreated a step.

"I've had a rough couple of days," he said in lieu of an answer, crossing toward his room. "I think that some sleep-"

He passed through the light from the street-lamp, and for a moment Watson had a clear view of the arm he was holding protectively against his body, and the alarmingly familiar way that the sleeve glimmered. Watson caught Holmes' shoulder. "What have you done to your arm?"

"It's nothing." He tried to push his way past. Watson's hand slipped down and squeezed the wet sleeve. He felt some odd mix of guilt and triumph when Holmes winced.

"It's not nothing. Let me see it."

Holmes drew himself up and glowered. "I can take care of it," he insisted in a masterful tone.

"_I _am the doctor here," Watson returned just as forcibly. "Let me do my job." Holmes hesitated, and Watson added more gently, "It's the least you can do for worrying me all week." He let his restraining hand fall away.

At length, Holmes took a seat back at the dining table. Watson smiled and set about lighting the lamp.

In the flickering oil-light, Watson could see that his medical bag was already on the table and open. That did not particularly surprise him. He could also see that Holmes' usually clean face bore grizzled side-whiskers, and his cheeks were oddly ruddy, though the end of his nose was still pale as usual. Though Watson was puzzled by this, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

"Well, let's have a look at this, then, shall we?"

Holmes did not speak as Watson inspected his wounds, merely watched the doctor with half-lidded eyes. A gash along his right forearm still bled sluggishly onto his sleeve. His hands showed signs of a brawl, with one knuckle scraped raw on his left hand and two burst on his right. Several bruises were in the process of being realized. Watson clicked his tongue in disapproval and dug the cleaning solution and a wad of cotton out of his bag.

"So what's the diagnosis, doctor?" Holmes asked lightly.

"It's hard to say," Watson said, "but I think you'll live. Now, this is going to sting a little."

Cleaned and disinfected, the gash turned out to be a superficial laceration, requiring only bandages. Soon enough, Watson had finished that process as well, and Holmes inspected the work as Watson put his things away.

"Thank you, doctor," Holmes said, rising to his feet. "I think, with your permission of course, that I am for bed now."

"It was nothing. Sleep well, Holmes."

Watson did not notice Holmes' lips purse very slightly, nor his brow furrow, the look of contemplation ghosting across his face for but a moment before he turned away. He did notice, however, when Holmes reached out and picked a ring of keys from his desk as he passed.

No, Watson realized. Not keys.

The doctor closed his Gladstone bag and picked up the lamp, carrying it over to his own writing-desk. He unlocked the top drawer and drew out his journal, wherein he scratched three short sentences.

_13. Wears disguises._

_14. Gets into fights involving knives._

_15. Owns a set of lock-picks._

He considered, and then flipped to a new page and added one last line. When he returned to bed, he brought the journal with him.

_-x-X-x-_

_Personal Journal, John H. Watson, MD._

_Late of the Army Medical Department._

_September 28, 1881, addendum._

I am afraid that Sherlock Holmes may be a criminal.

* * *

_Based on stories and characters created by Arthur Conan Doyle_

_This chapter is the direct result of the Russian Holmes series with Vasily Livanov and Vitaly Solomin._

_Thanks as always to my wonderful beta Adidasandpie for putting up with my flaky self._

_Revisions have been made to previous chapters._

_Reviews are appreciated, and critiques are adored._


	4. Chapter 3: The Unfortunate Constable

**Chapter 3: The Unfortunate Constable Oskinner**

* * *

"A criminal!" Fairholm gave an incredulous chuckle. "Don't you think that's a rather hasty judgement to be making?"

Sunlight slanted through the windows of the consulting-room, edging everything in gold as it proclaimed the lateness of the hour. The day had run long due to some pandemonium involving a young Pyrophoric's spontaneous manifestation in the middle of Berkley Square, which had left Fairholm and Watson to deal with a number of burns, as well as some broken bones and contusions from the flailing hooves of spooked horses. The two doctors had been engaged in cleaning the consulting-room after when Watson brought up his flatmate's return and the suspicions plaguing his mind.

"It would be," Watson agreed soberly, "if it were made in haste."

Fairholm stopped and turned fully toward Watson, bulldog forceps forgotten in his hand. "This... isn't merely a hypothetical scenario, is it?"

Watson hesitated. "No, I'm afraid it isn't.

"Oh, my." Fairholm tugged at the copious beard with which he offset his glabrous scalp. "Oh, my." He glanced at the forceps as if he didn't recognize it, then threw it into the autoclave with the other instruments. "Watson," he said, "you know that, in general, I trust your judgement, but surely-"

"This is not a conclusion I come to lightly, Fairholm," Watson interrupted. "I rather like the man, myself – and I think you might, too, if you were to meet him. But it's the only option that fits the facts." He briefly reiterated the signs he had collected through his month of observation. At the end, he let out a shaky sigh and said, "I don't think he's just some cat-burglar or cut-purse. No, he's first-rate. An... an assassin, perhaps."

"Oh, my," Fairholm repeated. He tugged his beard again.

"I'm sorry. It's unfair to burden you with this."

"No, it's all right," said Fairholm, holding up a hand. "A man shouldn't be expected to carry everything on his own shoulders, after all. What do you plan to do? Have you gone to the police?"

"With what? I haven't got any evidence, just suspicions. It would be my word against his, and I'm willing to bet my pension that he'd have a fast answer for all of it. If they questioned him at all, that is, and didn't just laugh me out of the station - and even then, I feel that he'd know I'd been there. The urchins cannot be the extent of his contacts."

"Yes, yes, I see," Fairholm murmured. He tugged his beard, and then met Watson's eyes, his brow creased with concern. "Perhaps, then, it would be best if you found new lodgings. Elizabeth and I have a small guest room in our home, we would be happy to have you."

A smile flickered on Watson's face, but he shook his head. "Thank you, truly, but no. My suddenly moving out would just make him suspicious, and I would never forgive myself for endangering your family."

"Even so, it would be safer-"

"Fairholm, I can take care of myself. I was in the military, you know." Watson smiled, the levity in his voice more than a little forced.

Fairholm sighed, but nodded. "Very well. You are a stubborn lout, I hope you know."

They finished cleaning up in silence, and a few minutes later found Watson shrugging on his coat and hiding a wince.

"Watson," called Fairholm from his desk. Watson glanced over his shoulder. "Take care, all right? And my offer still stands."

Watson smiled. "Of course, Fairholm. Thank you."

Purple fingers of dusk stained the sky as he stepped out of the practice, a stiff breeze choosing that moment to whip past and, unsatisfied with its collection of crackling golden leaves, snatch at his coat and hat on the way. He kept ahold of both, however, and turned his collar up against the cold. His cane tapped rhythmically upon the pavement as he walked towards Baker Street.

The streets were clearing, but there was still a steady stream of people going to and fro here on New Bond Street. Sellers bundled up their wares while couples hailed cabs to take them to the theatre, mothers herded children home as men stepped out from their work intent their clubs or homes. A solitary lamp-lighter whistled his way from street-lamp to street-lamp. The stream thinned a little as Watson passed down Oxford Street, and he expected the trend to continue when he turned the corner to Baker Street. Therefore, he was surprised to find that a small crowd seemed to have gathered halfway down. As he drew closer, the crowd began to dissipate, allowing him a look at whatever commotion had attracted their attention.

A group of five men seemed to be the centre of the spectacle. Two of them were uniformed police constables. A large, plain-clothed man boomed orders for the crowd to disperse. The fourth man was lying on his stomach on the ground, hands fastened behind him and eyes flashing with Light. The fifth Watson recognized from the periodicals: the masked Sir Mise, resembling a spectre in his head-to-toe black, who hung back from the others and seemed to flicker with impatient energy. All five looked rather the worse for wear, with one constable staunching blood from a scalp wound, and more blood visible on the other constable and the plain-clothed man,

Watson approached the plain-clothes, presuming him to be the leader. "Excuse me." The detective looked down at him. "I'm a doctor, and you-"

He didn't get any further, as the detective let out a not-quite-derisive chuckle and waved dismissively. "That's quite all right, there's been a Healer already sent for, for the lads. He's nearby, should be here in fifteen minutes." He said something else, but Watson found himself distracted by another sound entirely.

The constable without the scalp wound had been bracing against the fence and trying to catch his breath when Watson had arrived, but now he leant his whole weight upon it. His breathing was rapid and shallow, nearly gasping. Watson took in the bulging veins in his neck, the tone of his skin, and the movement of his chest, and had already started toward him when the detective blocked his path. "Sir, I told you-"

"How long has it been since the attack?"

"Sir, move-"

"How long?" Watson demanded.

"Three to five minutes, approximately," answered a different voice. Sir Mise had stolen over to them.

The detective turned and glowered at Mise. "Now listen, you, don't encourage-"

"_You_ listen, Inspector," Watson snapped. The detective looked back to him, surprise evident even as his face began to purple from outrage. Watson continued unfazed. "Your man there has a punctured lung leaking air into his pleural cavity at an alarming rate. If something isn't done in the next few minutes, he will suffocate. If you want him to live, _get out of my way._"

For a very long moment, nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to pause in anticipation. Watson stared up at the detective's scowling face, his unwavering vehemence more than making up for the four inches of height and sixty pounds of muscle mass that the detective had on him. Then the detective blinked. Watson didn't wait for him to move, just brushed past and went straight to the constable. By that time, the constable had slid down the wall, his hand pressed to his left side as he struggled for breath. There was a bluish tinge to his lips, and as Watson got close, he could hear the distinct soft sound of grating bone.

Watson knelt beside him, tugging his hand away. The constable's eyes snapped open. "Who-?" he mouthed, confusion and fear mingling in his expression.

"I'm a doctor. I'm here to help you," Watson assured him. "Stay calm and let me have a look." He opened the man's coat and shirt, and sure enough, the left side of the chest beneath was fully expanded, the right side labouring to make up the difference. Watson pressed two fingers against the swelling, which crackled at his touch.

The constable was progressing fast into hyperventilation. Watson lay him down on the pavement and dove into his medical bag. There was a protest from one or more of the other men as he withdrew a catlin, but Watson paid it no heed, his free hand finding the swelling again and feeling out the nearest ribs. Watson took a moment to position the knife, and then plunged it in, sliding neatly between the ribs. The constable let out a cry, and then promptly lost consciousness when Watson applied pressure to the wound.

As the trapped air hissed out and the man's breathing returned to normal, Watson looked up at the detective, who looked more than a little discomposed. "He'll be all right now. See that your Healer checks for internal bleeding before he does anything else." Watson wiped the catlin clean and replaced it. "I'll be on my way, then."

He was just gathering his cane when a ratty child appeared around the corner and called out, "S'no good, guv, Doc Ionson's out!"

"Your Healer?" asked Watson. The detective's scowl returned. Watson sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. "It's not ideal, but my flat's just up the street there, and it's better than leaving him in the cold."

The detective nodded in grudging concession. "Mise, watch Wilson. Morris, you get Oskinner's legs, I'll take his arms. Lead the way, doctor."

"Just a moment - it's 221b, right up there. Here, boy!" The child darted over to Watson. "Take a message to 113 New Bond Street, for Doctor Fairholm. Tell him that Watson requires his aid. Quickly, now!"

Watson preceded the police-men up the stairs to the sitting room, grabbing a waterproof from the coatrack and calling for hot water and linens from Mrs. Hudson as he passed. He lay the waterproof across the settee. "Set him here on the sofa. Holmes! Are you here? Holmes!" When there came no answer, Watson let out a breath that was most certainly not a sigh of relief and turned back to his 'guests'. "You'd best let me have a look at the two of you, while you're here."

"I don't need a doctor to deal with a few small cuts," the detective replied curtly. Watson eyed the blood on his coat and opened his mouth to protest. "Good day, Doctor." He swept out without another word. Constable Morris looked between Watson and the door a few times, fidgeting with his handkerchief.

"I - I, uhm - he's a Regenerator, sir."

"Say no more. Take a seat, Constable, I'll be with you in a moment."

Morris made to sit, but leapt back to his feet as Mrs. Hudson bustled in, a steaming basin in hand. "I must say, Doctor, it's an interesting change to have you bellowing for me."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Let me take that," said Watson, relieving her of the basin with the thought of sparing her sensibilities from the bloody scene. He needn't have worried, as she followed him in anyhow and hardly batted an eyelash.

"Oh, you poor dear, do sit down," she told Morris, who sank gratefully back into the basket-chair. "Here's some wash-rags, doctor, straight from the laundry – don't worry about blood on them, they've had worse over the years. I'll bring up some tea and hold off dinner until you're done."

"Thank you," Watson repeated, "that's very much appreciated. I'm expecting a Dr. Fairholm shortly, could you send him straight up?"

"Of course. Do call if there's anything else you need." She bustled back to the door. A gasp from the landlady prompted Watson to look up from where he was mixing disinfectant into the hot water. "Oh! You're that man from the news!"

Indeed, Sir Mise loomed over her in the doorway. He touched his hat-brim with a gloved hand. "Good evening, madam."

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson, let him in."

Mrs. Hudson cast Watson a dubious look, but let the spectre pass and continued on her own way. Watson shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, eying Mise. "Can I help you?"

"Actually, I was going to ask the same of you."

"You want to help?"

"If I can."

Scepticism or not, Watson knew better than to turn away a second pair of hands. "Take off your gloves, then, and wash your hands. Soak and wring out one of those rags and bring it over. Constable Morris, if you could tilt your head back..."

In about ten minutes, the blood had been cleaned away from Morris' scalp and the laceration proved to be a small impact-cut only requirous of three stitches, with no sign of concussion. Morris flinched at each pass of the needle, but remained silent and otherwise still during the procedure. Mise had refused to remove his gloves, but had scrubbed his hands anyway, gloves and all, so Watson let it pass.

"That should do it," said Watson, securing the last stitch. "Is there anything else – even a scrape – that ought be tended to?" Morris replied in the negative. "Then I'd say you were fit to return to your duties, Constable."

Morris nodded and excused himself. The front bell rang a moment later. Footsteps flew up the steps, and Fairholm burst through the sitting-room door, looking worried. "Watson! You're all right?"

"I'm fine. This poor chap may not be doing so well, though."

Fairholm's relief was quickly replaced by professional sobriety, and he crossed to the settee with hardly a glance at Mise.

"Pulmonary pneumothorax," Watson informed the other doctor. "I had to do an emergency puncture. There may be internal bleeding."

"I'll need to get a look in. Is Holmes...?"

"He's not here," Watson replied, avoiding the subtextual second question. He was fairly sure Holmes had nothing to do with this little incident – but it was a bit too close to home, all the same. "I'll clear off the dining table, that'll give us room to work. Mise, could you help move him?"

Between the three of them, Oskinner was laid out on the dining table. Watson flashed a grateful smile.

"Sir Mise, thank you, but-"

"But my services are no longer needed," the masked man interrupted genially. "Good evening, doctors." Mise swept out in a swirl of caped long-coat.

Watson watched the last flash of coat disappear, then turned back to Fairholm.

_-x-X-x-_

Fairholm was gone and the clock long past nine by the time Holmes returned. He showed no particular surprise at having a bandaged constable unconscious on their settee. "Surgery on the dining table?" he did comment, despite the table having been scrubbed of all signs. "And you say my habits are strange. No, no, don't apologize, I understand that it was an emergency. Why don't you tell me about it?"

Needless to say, that was not the reaction Watson was expecting. Smothering his suspicion, he set down and recounted the story while Holmes ate his cold dinner. Once they'd both finished, they relocated to the chairs flanking the fireplace.

"So, you met the infamous Sir Mise. Pity I didn't come home earlier." Holmes packed a black clay pipe, which he lit with a coal from the hearth. "What did you think of him?"

Watson hadn't stopped to unravel his first impression of the masked man. He took a moment to consider. "Well, he was helpful, in a sort of stand-offish fashion. Secretive to the end – wouldn't even take off his hat when he got inside."

"Or his gloves."

"Indeed."

"Did he strike you as a Mentalist?"

"Er... now that you ask, no." Holmes' thin eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Unusually perceptive, yes. He finished a few of my sentences and gleaned my point before I'd come to it. When it came to little things, like which instrument I needed, he didn't pick up on those until I'd voiced them. It would have been at the forefront of my mind, so he shouldn't have had any trouble with it, were he a Mentalist."

Holmes smiled one of his secretive smiles, and Watson wondered if perhaps he hadn't said too much.

_-x-X-x-_

The next morning found the flat once against devoid of Holmes' presence. Watson checked on his patient, pleased to find that Oskinner had progressed from unconsciousness to proper, if very deep, sleep. Unfortunately, he was far from waking on his own, and Fairholm had given specific instructions for Watson to watch him until he'd woken. Watson resigned himself to spending the morning with a medical journal.

Before he'd met Fairholm, his mornings tended to be even less active. Most of them were slept through entirely – when he could sleep. When he couldn't, they were spent staring at the cracked ceiling of his hotel room, alternately trying to convince himself to get up and wondering if there was any point if he did. All too frequently he would conclude that there wasn't. He could only thank fate that, one particularly unbearable morning in February, he had decided otherwise.

Now, he could hardly stand such an unproductive morning. The days he'd spent laid up with fever at least had the benefit of Holmes' eccentric self to observe; the snoring Constable simply did not measure up. It was hardly half an hour before Watson gave up on the journal and began re-arranging the papers on his desk. When that failed to hold his attention, he began to pace a circle from the hearth to the dining table, rounding the settee on the way, silently telling himself that it was good for his leg. That argument fell flat, as nearly did he, when he tripped over his Gladstone bag at the base of the settee. He caught and steadied himself on the back of Holmes' chair.

Damn this inactivity. He could be out at Fairholm's or the clinic now, soothing pains and saving lives, _doing_ something with the life he was inexplicably still living. Instead, he was relegated to playing nanny. He shot a glare at the constable, who dared to remain asleep and oblivious.

Watson sighed and dropped into Holmes' chair. The constable may have been a convenient target, but he was an unfair one. A police-man's work was no less valid than that of the military men that Watson had served with; where those brave men fought outside forces, he protected England from its own corrupt core.

Watson's gaze was abruptly drawn to the pen-knife sticking out of the mantel, and the pile of letters transfixed beneath it.

His respect for privacy and innate sense of courtesy joined forces and leapt to the forefront of his mind, informing him in very stern terms that it was incredibly rude to go through another man's mail. A tiny voice of reason added to their side, pointing out that anything incriminating would no doubt be in the urchin-letters, which never found their way to the pen-knife. On the other side, his sense of righteousness rose up tall and reminded him that it was his duty to crown and country to discover if Holmes was really the sort of man Watson feared he was. There would be no harm done if there were nothing there, and harm might be averted if there were. His anxiety weighed in on that side, proclaiming that if he didn't do _something_, he was going to go completely mad.

In the end, Watson rose and went to the mantel. His hands trembled with the still-raging internal battle, but nevertheless flipped through the pinned envelopes, leaving the knife in place. Return addresses and meaningless names passed by, all addressed to Holmes, some at Baker Street, some forwarded from his former address on Montague Street. It was near to the bottom before one of them caught Watson's eye. The envelope itself was a plain, rough quality, but scrawled into the corner was a very singular address:

_Bethlem Royal Hospital, St. George's Fields, Southwark._

The front bell rang. Watson jumped about a foot in the air and nearly tripped over his own feet as he backed away from the mantel. He barely managed to strike the guilty look from his face before Mrs. Hudson knocked.

"Doctor Watson? There's an Inspector Lestrade here to see you."

Watson started to answer, croaked, cleared his throat, and managed, "Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, send him right in."

He expected to be faced with the Inspector from the night before, but the small, trim man that opened the door could not have been more different if he'd tried. The largest and blackest pair of eyes that Watson had ever seen on an adult regarded him shrewdly from a narrow face which, with its long twitchy nose and large ears, reminded Watson inexplicably of a ferret.

"Good morning, Inspector," Watson greeted him with a smile. "What can I do for you?"

"A pleasure, doctor." The Inspector shook hands and smiled politely, but there seemed an ever-present suspicion in those great dark eyes of his. "I heard you had one of our lads, thought I might drop by and see how he's faring."

"He's doing just fine." Watson gestured to the settee. "Sleeping like a log, but that's to be expected. He'll be back up by tomorrow at the latest, likely sooner."

Lestrade nodded, crossing to examine the Constable himself. When he turned back, it was with a more genuine – if a bit self-satisfied – smile on his face. "I also heard you butted heads with Inspector Gregson."

"Oh, was that his name? I never caught it."

"Yes, well, I'd like to apologize for his behaviour. My colleague can be a little..."

"Overbearing?"

"I was looking for a polite way to put it."

"Stubborn, then. Fortunately, so am I. And I haven't a partiality for Anomalies to hinder me."

Lestrade's genuine smile returned, this time with a rueful tint. "Ah, you noticed that, did you?"

"I had a feeling." Watson waved dismissively. "Never mind that. Excuse my manners, would you have a seat, Inspector?"

"No, thank you. I actually must be going – I've duties to attend to. It was a pleasure to meet you, doctor."

"And you, Inspector. Good day."

Lestrade paused outside 221b to pluck a cigarette from his case and set it between his lips. He struck a match.

"What do you think?"

Lestrade did not jump, but twitched rather violently and dropped his match. He glared at the masked man that had materialized at his elbow. "I think I don't like it when you appear out of air like that!" He stamped out the match and lit another.

Mise tipped his head in an impression of rolling eyes. "Of _him_."

"He knocked Gregson down a few pegs, that gives him a note in my book. Seems like an affable bloke otherwise."

"Nothing else struck you about him?" Mise asked with a note of impatience. "Nothing at all?"

Lestrade eyed him. "No."

The masked man sighed. "And that, my dear Inspector, is why you'll be consulting me for many years to come."

"Here now, if that was all just a build-up to an insult-"

"Insult? No, no, Inspector." Mise turned and looked up at the bow windows of the 221b sitting-room. "Just thinking aloud."

* * *

_Based on stories and characters created by Arthur Conan Doyle._

_Thanks as always to my wonderful beta Adidasandpie._

_Reviews are appreciated, and critiques are adored._


	5. Chapter 4: The Man Behind the Mask

**Chapter 4: The Man Behind The Mask**

_Some readers may recognize the opening of this chapter from the original prologue. My apologies for the repetition._

* * *

It was dusk before the constable awoke. He moved gingerly – the newly-Healed flesh would be tender and sore for some time yet, as Watson knew – and it took no coaxing to get him to eat when Mrs. Hudson brought dinner. Holmes, on the other hand, had thrown himself into some kind of delicate chemical experiment the moment he returned home in mid-afternoon, and his focus was not to be shaken for anything so mundane as mealtime. By seven, the constable was on his way home.

Four days later found Watson pressing a stethoscope to a patient's chest, ordering the man to breathe in and then out as he listened. The breaths thrummed in the wooden bell of the stethoscope, punctuated by a steady bass heartbeat. Watson straightened, satisfied. "Everything sounds fine, Mr. Dalrymple. Could you sit up and extend your arm, please? I'm going to test your joints, tell me if there's any pain."

"Whatever you say, doctor," his patient replied. "I told you, though, the pain's all gone. That, what was it, 'solicitairic' that you prescribed me-"

"Salicylic acid," Watson murmured, his focus on the joints he was gently bending and palpating.

"Yes, that. It worked wonders, cleared everything right up. By morning I was up and playing outside with the girls again."

"I'm very glad to hear that, Mr. Dalrymple. Other arm, please?"

"You know," said Dalrymple in a conspiratorial whisper, "the wife wanted me to go to one of those _aberrant _doctors. I'm glad I put her right, though. Between you and I, doctor, I don't trust those aberrants and that 'Light' of theirs. It's just not natural for a man's eyes to glow like some kind of animal's. Meaning no disrespect to your employer, of course, Dr. Fairholm's a nice enough fellow, but normal folk like you and I just can't know what sort of affect that power has on the mind."

"Of course," said Watson with a polite smile. "All right, you're all set, Mr. Dalrymple – looks like the salicylic's cleared everything up, like you said, and there's been no adverse effect on your heart. Let me know if you have another attack, and otherwise, I'll see you again in six months."

"Thank you again, Dr. Watson. Good day to you."

"Good day, Mr. Dalrymple."

The door swung shut behind his patient. Watson's smile vanished and he released a frustrated sigh, resisting the urge to swipe a hand through his neatly-groomed hair. Instead, he swiped a cloth over the examination table, scrubbing the leather and dark wood harder than was strictly necessary.

The consulting-room was empty when he stepped out, save for Fairholm at the desk, alternately scribbling furiously with and chewing on the end of a rather worse-for-wear pen. "What's this? A chance to breath?" Watson dropped into one of the waiting-chairs and scrubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand.

Fairholm glanced up from the paperwork, a smile crinkling his warm eyes. "You look as if you need it. Dalrymple didn't give you too much trouble, did he?"

"Oh, no, just the usual 'between you and me'."

Fairholm nodded in sympathy. "I should have guessed. You take these things too much to heart, you know."

"Maybe I do." Watson sighed again. "It's just disheartening to realize that it's only by close-minded men like him that I remain employed."

"Now, don't you start that up again," said Fairholm, jabbing the pen in his direction. "I had my reasons for bringing you on, and all the Dalrymples in London had little to do with it."

Watson smiled at him. The door burst open. Both doctors instinctively rose from their seats.

Despite the brusque treatment of the door, their caller strolled into the consulting-room as casual as could be, looking quite high-class with a burgundy waistcoat and brown silk top-hat. Pale eyes made a quick sweep of the room before alighting on Watson.

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed.

His flatmate's hawkish features arranged themselves in a smile. "Ah, Watson, just who I was looking for. And you must be Doctor Fairholm – a pleasure, sir." Holmes stepped up to shake hands. "I was wondering if I might borrow the good Doctor Watson for a time."

"Borrow?" Fairholm repeated. "We- for how long?"

"A few hours? Possibly the rest of the day. I'm not certain."

"Holmes," Watson cut in, "What is this? Are you all right?"

"Quite. It's just that something's come up, and I should like your professional opinion on the matter."

Holmes leant on his stick and waited while the doctors exchanged a look. "I don't know if-" Fairholm began, even as Watson said, "All right." They exchanged a second look, and Watson repeated: "All right."

Fairholm's brow furrowed, but he nodded. "Yes, we're... there's not much on the docket for this after-noon. Nothing I can't handle."

Holmes rubbed his hands together, apparently oblivious to the silent exchange. "Very good, very good! I promise to have him back to you in good time and good shape. Come along, Watson!" He swept out as quickly as he had come in.

Fairholm caught Watson's eye one last time as he was throwing on his coat. "Be careful," the older man mouthed. Watson nodded, grabbed his stick, and followed his flatmate.

_-x-X-x-_

Holmes set down the street at a fast clip, such that Watson found his entire focus on simply keeping up. "Holmes!" he said at one point, a breathless shout at the long-legged creature two paces ahead. "Where the devil are we going?"

Holmes only replied, "Not much farther," and his steps seemed to quicken a little more.

They passed down Oxford Street and behind Covington Garden, and Watson's leg was beginning to protest at the pace, when Holmes turned down an alleyway and then seemed to vanish. For a moment, Watson's heart rate sped – then he caught up and found an old door, flush with the wall and half grown-over, hidden until one was almost on top of it. He pushed it open. Beyond was an uncarpeted staircase that looked to have been built before Victoria's christening, with peeling paint upon the walls that may have been purple early last decade, but was now a drab greyish-yellow. The scents of mould, coal, and dust swirled at him, recently disturbed. Holmes was already half-ways up. Watson grimaced, rubbed his leg, and followed.

They passed up four flights of numbered apartments before Holmes finally stopped, unlocked the door at the very top of the steps and entered. Watson stopped outside the threshold to catch his breath. The door was marked with a tarnished '13'. The room beyond was dark, any windows covered, Holmes' lean silhouette only visible by way of the little light from the window in the lower landing.

Watson heard more than saw Holmes stroll across the room, the floorboards groaning and creaking under his shoes like arthritic bones. "Come in, Doctor, and close the door."

Watson gripped his stick tight and did as he was bade. No sooner had the door closed behind him, though, than heavy canvas snapped and the room was suddenly filled with light. Sunlight filtered through a thick layer of dirt on a window in the far wall and illuminated a small and dusty room, furnished with a wooden chair, a cot, a small table with a lantern, mirror, and empty basin, and a locked trunk.

Holmes' hand dove into his coat, and with a flourish he withdrew a creased piece of paper, which he smoothed on the table and proffered to Watson. "I wonder if you would do me the favour of reading this? Out loud," he added as Watson took the paper, "if you please."

Watson moved over to the window, his gaze flickering between Holmes and the paper. Holmes stood between the trunk and the table, his hands folded behind him, waiting patiently until Watson began to read.

"My dear Sir:

"There has been a bad business during the night at 3, Lauriston Gardens, off the Brixton Road." Watson glanced up again to see Holmes shed his hat and stick on the table and crouch before the trunk, drawing a brass key from the breast pocket of his waistcoat. "Our man on the beat saw a light there about two in the morning, and as the house was an empty one, suspected-" A solid _thunk_ interrupted him. The trunk was open now, and Holmes was removing from it a stack of papers.

"Go on," Holmes prompted without looking up. Watson wet his lips and continued.

"-suspected that something was amiss. He found the door open, and in the front room, which is bare of furniture, discovered marks of blood all across the floor. We are at a loss as to what has gone on in this empty house; indeed, it could be nothing at all. If you can come round to the house any time before twelve, you will find me there. I have left everything _in statu quo_ until I hear from you. If you are unable to come, I shall send you fuller details, and would esteem it a great kindness if you would favour me with your opinions.

"Yours faithfully,

"Tobias Gregson."

Gregson? Watson mouthed the name as he turned the paper over._ Sir Mise_, it read, _care of box 23_. He read it twice, just to be sure. "Holmes, this letter is addressed to-"

The rest of the sentence died on his tongue, as he looked up to demand an answer from his flatmate, only to find that a rather dramatic change had occurred while he'd been occupied with the letter's tale. In the brief time it had taken him to read, Holmes had shed his brown frock coat and bright waistcoat, replacing both with sombre black. A long and familiar black inverness ulster rested on his shoulders, a black bowler atop his head, and a thin black tie lay loose about his neck in the place of his paisley puff-tie. Atop the pile of discarded clothing on the table sat the hawk-nosed mask, angled so that its dark eye-holes seemed to glare up at Watson.

"Sir... Mise..." he finished in what was little more than a croak.

Holmes finished tying his rubber tennis shoes and straightened. He picked up the mask, rubbing a non-existent speck of dust out of the material. "I was rather hoping, Watson, that you would be so kind as to accompany me on this case."

Watson was too stunned to do anything but nod.

* * *

_Hello again! Anyone still reading this? Sorry about disappearing like that.  
_

_I've decided to treat this as a rough draft, and am going to power through finishing the thing before I go back and start obsessively fixing earlier stuff. Otherwise, I get stuck on fixing things and end up freaking out and running away.  
_

_Beta-read, as always, by the lovely and patient Adidasandpie.  
_

_Criticism, critique, and questions are loved!  
_


	6. Chapter 5: The Lauriston Gardens Mystery

**Chapter 5: The Lauriston Gardens Mystery**

* * *

"No doubt you have questions," said Holmes, breaking a solid three minutes filled only with the clatter of horses' hooves and the natural creak and sway of the hansom. Watson jumped and flushed and settled a little deeper into his side of the bench. He forced his hands to unclench from his cane. Holmes, with his body angled towards Watson, his fingers steepled together, and his dark-eyed mask and scarf hiding all expression, seemed to watch the whole process with the unblinking intensity of a snake eying its prey.

"Well- I- That is, naturally, I... I mean-" Watson stammered and wondered where the deuce he'd mislaid his wits. He had questions, of course, _oh_ did he have questions, but where in the world to _start_?

"That's all right, Doctor, I will answer a few of them anyway." A hint of amusement lightened Holmes' baritone voice. He leant back in his seat, "You have been wondering as of late how I earn my bread, and had come to the conclusion that I was a common criminal – ah, don't apologize! It was perfectly logical, given the facts you had in hand. And I grant you that I would no doubt make an excellent criminal, if I were so inclined. Fortunately for our fair country and already-overtasked police-force, I am not. Unfortunately, for myself, there are only a small handful of legal occupations that allow me to utilize my particular skills.

"You will recall, when we first met, I commented that you had been in Afghanistan? You responded with surprise, but the process of discerning it was simplicity itself. Observation and deduction are so second-nature that I had seen you and arrived at the conclusion within moments of each other, hardly myself aware of the steps leading to it. There were such steps. I observed, 'here is a gentleman of a medical type, but with a military bearing. An army doctor, then. He has been in the tropics, for his face is dark, but that is not his natural tone, as his wrists are fair. He has undergone hardship and sickness, as his haggard face says clearly. His left arm has been injured, as he holds it in a stiff and unnatural manner, and he limps. Where in the tropics could an English army doctor have seen much hardship and been wounded twice? Clearly in Afghanistan.' "

Watson, somewhat recovered by now, smiled and then laughed a little. "It does seem simple now that you explain it, but at the time I wondered how a Mentalist came to have no Light."

Holmes let out an exhalation that was not quite a snort. "Mentalism _is_ frequently offered by the uninformed as an explanation for my abilities. I have explained the process once or twice to the more promising detectives, but to most I am more than happy to remain silent on my Light – or lack thereof."

"That's why you wear the mask," Watson gasped. "The entire Sir Mise persona!"

Holmes nodded. His voice was tinged with bitterness when he continued. "Yes, it is a sad state of affairs, but I'm afraid London in the present climate is more ready to put its faith in a masked vigilante than in a mundane amateur. It keeps me in rent and interesting problems, though, so I cannot complain overmuch."

"London is rather capricious that way," Watson agreed. "What is your theory about this case?"

"I haven't one. It is a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence. It biases the judgement."

"Indeed," said Watson. His smile took on a wry curl. "You know, for all your deductions, you've got one thing wrong."

Holmes' chin inclined sharply toward him. "Oh?"

"I thought you a criminal, it is true. I _never_ thought you common."

Holmes' face tilted down again. It was perhaps wishful thinking on Watson's part, but he fancied that if he could see that face, it would be flushed. Holmes turned toward the window and cried, "Ah! I believe we are on Brixton Road now. Stop, driver, stop!"

They were still a hundred yards from the house, but at Holmes' insistence they alighted and finished the journey on foot. "Now, remember, Watson," he instructed, all business, "I am Sir Mise here."

As they approached Lauriston Gardens, Watson considered the buildings. There were four in total, standing back a little from the street, with the farthest two showing the slight but clear signs of occupancy – fresh paint, curtained windows, a wisp of black smoke from the chimney. The unoccupied latter two looked upon the street with three tiers of vacant, melancholy windows, empty save that here and there a 'To Let' card had developed like a cataract upon the bleared panes. It seemed to Watson as if at any moment they would defy their foundations and slump in defeat, if only the act of defiance were not too much a hardship. They were little old men, these houses, forgotten by time and family, tended to by strangers out of a sense of duty, only keeping on out of weary, dogged habit. A small garden sprinkled with sickly plants separated each of these houses from the street, these bounded by three-foot brick walls with a fringe of wood rails across the top, and against the rail of Number 3 leaned a stalwart police constable, keeping back a small knot of loafers craning their necks and straining their eyes in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of the proceedings within. They stopped craning and began to murmur amongst themselves when Mise came into view.

Mise did not go directly to the house, but rather lounged up and down the street with an air of nonchalance, taking his time in surveying the pavement, the street, the wood rail, and even the sky above. Then he took to the narrow yellowish path traversing the garden, or rather, to the strip of grass that ran alongside the wet and sloppy clay. He took half-steps and stopped twice, once uttering a cry of satisfaction that amused his spectators. To Watson, footprints were clear enough in the clay, but there were so many of them passing back and forth that he could not even begin to see what use Mise could get out of the mess.

When finally they reached the door, they were met by the tall, white-faced man that Watson now knew to be Gregson. He wrung Mise's hand and greeted him pleasantly, and his eyes grew quite wide at the sight of Watson. "Doctor! Didn't expect to see you here."

"Didn't expect to be here, Detective," replied Watson with only a little heat. "How is Oskinner?"

Gregson said that he was doing well, and turned his attention to Mise, who was tapping his toe impatiently. "It is indeed kind of you to come. I have had everything left untouched."

"Except that!" Mise answered, pointing a gloved finger at the pathway. "If a herd of buffaloes had passed along, there could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this."

Gregson's courteous smile wavered. "I left the outside to Constable Hinchley," he said, shooting a glance at the older Constable stationed near the door. "As I have had my hands rather full with the mystery within. There's not too much to it, but it's a pretty little conundrum all the same, and I know your taste for these sort of things."

"Indeed. Did you come here in a cab?"

"No," Gregson answered.

"Did any of your men?"

"No."

"Well, then, let us have a look."

Gregson lead them into the house, through a dark and oppressive little hall with only two doors, the further of which had clearly not been opened in a very long time. The other opened into a large dining room that carried out the depressing atmosphere of the outside. Dust swirled in the reluctant, sickly light that leaked through the front window, still leaving so much of the room in shadow that it was easy to forget it was only half-past noon. Mouldy flaring paper, vulgar even in life, peeled away from the wall in strips. Across from the door was a great fireplace of imitation white marble, a stub of red candle stuck onto one end with a frozen cascade of red wax spilling over the edge. Red-brown gouts and splashes speckled the floor, propelling the scene from merely depressing into perplexing and even a little macabre.

"Over here is the most bizarre aspect," said Gregson, who stepped around the edge of the room to the corner by the fireplace. "I almost missed it, back in the shadows as it is, but see-" He struck a match and held it up. There, where a great deal of the paper had revealed yellowed wallboards, a single word was written out in dark red.

_Rache_

"This would have been the brightest corner when that candle was lit," Gregson said. "And in the fireplace, just behind the grate, we found this." He drew from his pocket a small gold band and held it out for Mise to inspect. "It's a woman's wedding ring, no doubt about it. My bet is that whatever happened here, it's a woman called Rachel at the bottom of it – and I expect we'll be seeing more of her."

"What makes you say that?" Mise asked in a distant way, handing back the ring as he went to examine the writing.

"Well," said Gregson with a rather smug tone, "a criminal hardly signs their work if they expect it to be the only one."

"Indeed," Mise murmured. "You seem to have it all figured out – assuming a crime has been committed at all. If you don't mind, I'd like to do a full inspection of the room." So saying, Mise dropped to the floor and began to crawl about, even once dropping flat on his face with a glass to inspect a spot on the floor that seemed indistinguishable from any other. Producing a tape measure, he measured between seemingly arbitrary points on the floor and the walls. He gathered a small amount of grey dust into a packet of paper, and examined each letter of _Rache_ closely with the glass. The entire time, he kept up a constant unintelligible murmur to himself.

Altogether, the process took twenty minutes, during which time Gregson and Watson watched from the hall. Gregson seemed less interested in Mise's process, and instead spent most of the time observing Watson out of the corner of his eyes. Watson pointedly ignored the scrutiny.

At length Mise rose again, spun round on his heel and exited the room. At Gregson's impatient "Well?", Mise merely fluttered a hand.

"I would not presume to tread on your theories, Gregson. Only that I don't think you'll have much luck with miss Rachel."

Gregson's watery eyes narrowed in challenge. "Pray tell, Mr. Mise, why is that?"

Rather than answer, Mise wandered out into the front porch, looked both ways down the street before turning back to Gregson. "There were two men on the premises. One was heavy, with a round-toed shoe, unsteady on his feet, and required some help in getting inside, but once inside steadied himself against the wall, until the point that he fell to the ground. The other was tall, around six feet, wore square-toed boots and smoked a Trichinopoly cigar as he paced the length of the fireplace – and-" Mise rubbed his chin through the dark scarf. "Yes, yes. He would be florid in the face. Both men left, round-shoe even more unsteady than before, dragging his feet and stepping in the puddle on the walk rather than around it. They left in a hansom lead by a nervous horse with three old shoes and one new one on the left foreleg."

Gregson folded his arms and looked carefully unimpressed. "And the ring and 'Rache'?"

"_Rache_," Mise corrected, making the consonants into such a harsh growl that it hardly sounded like a word. "is the German for 'revenge'." His voice made it clear that if his face could be seen, he would be smiling in a most depreciating way.

Mise was halfway down the walk, Watson at his heels, before Gregson called after him. "Well, what do you make of it, then?"

"I don't!" Mise called back. "Not enough data. Look into the cab, though, would you?"

"You don't really intend to leave, do you?" Watson asked, just stopping himself from saying Holmes' name.

Mise shook his hawk-nosed mask. "I can do no more here, Watson," he said. He sounded more than disappointed – let down, really. "I am afraid-"

A breathless shout down the street stopped him. A small, ragged child in a ridiculously oversized tophat ran up and, gasping, proffered an envelope. Mise replaced the letter with a coin, and stood a little straighter to read it as the urchin ran off again.

"Hah! It's Lestrade – some business at Queenhithe. Perhaps I'm not off the case after all. Gregson!" Mise spun to find that Gregson was already nearly at his elbow. "Would you accompany the doctor and me? I have a sneaking suspicion that this will be of interest to you."

Gregson wrinkled his brow at the words 'sneaking suspicion' – apparently, he had heard that phrase before – but forged a smile anyhow. "I think I've done all I can here," he agreed. "And my colleague Lestrade could do with an extra set of eyes."

"Indeed," Mise chuckled in an entirely unsettling way. "Indeed."

* * *

_Ohai there, plot! Fancy meeting you here._

_Beta-read by miss Adidasandpie._


End file.
